


Overtime

by hirayaart



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, FullMetal Alchemist - Freeform, Kain Fuery - Freeform, Royai - Freeform, riza hawkeye - Freeform, roy mustang - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24910180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hirayaart/pseuds/hirayaart
Summary: Even people who thrive under extreme amounts of pressure, sometimes just need a break. The colonel upsets his lieutenant, and a poor young master sergeant is caught in the middle.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75





	Overtime

**Author's Note:**

> Totally forgot this oneshot was sitting in the drive. I've been working overtime myself and suddenly remembered it 😅 hope you like!

There are at least two things a man or woman in service must realize once they climb the ranks of the military. First, you have earned favor with the upper echelon and they have given your promotion a surprisingly painstaking amount of thought. Second, you must honor such, and accept your new and additional responsibilities as a higher ranking official. Some soldiers see promotions as an honor as much as it is a lifelong sentence to “the people, above all else.” For a certain Colonel Roy Mustang, it was nothing but an opportunity and a step closer to his ultimate goal: the seat of the Führer.

Lucky for him, he had five of Amestris’  _ finest, _ to help him manage the exponential increase of responsibilities as both a State Alchemist with immediate field duties and as a notably high ranking official now assigned to Central Command. However, First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye had been quick to note that his dependence on his team had exponentially increased as well, and it was manifesting in more frequent late nights at the office and the occasional stiff neck. Nearing a month since their transfer, she had not even unpacked yet.

“Sergeant Fuery,” she said, penning another document with one hand and extending the other.

“Here, Lieutenant!” Fuery briskly stacked at least three bundles of contracts together and handed them across.

“Thank you,” was the short reply.

Master Sergeant Kain Fuery suppressed a gulp and continued to work at his corner of the communal table. He could almost see the lieutenant’s rising blood pressure coming off as steam from her head. This was the third night in a row that he had offered to stay past 2100 out of sheer sympathy. He was the youngest and newest to the Mustang unit, and barely had had enough time to relish in his esteemed transfer to Central because of the additional work the team had collectively taken on. By now, he had also come to respect the dynamic between the colonel and the first lieutenant. If he was being honest, he did at first find their workflow to be unique, if not more personal than most military relationships go. But he saw how it served them and generated results. Being the last to be recruited into the Mustang chain of command, Fuery was told that the colonel had singlehandedly assembled the men he personally considered genuine and dependable. The rumor that continued to carry on across the ranks was that the Mustang men were to be the colonel’s loyal dogs, but the team had quickly found out—for themselves—that they had been evaluated for their loyalty to the People. 

If anything, the only man on this team expected to be loyal to Colonel Mustang per se was Hawkeye, for the sole purpose of knowing when to shoot him dead, should he stray from his path.

“I need a drink,” Hawkeye grumbled and gathered what batch of papers she had finished reorganizing and marched over to dump them angrily on Mustang’s desk.

Fuery looked up and adjusted his glasses, “Lieutenant, I insist you go home,” he offered. “You’ve done this too many times this week. There isn’t much left, and I can take care of it now.”

Hawkeye took a breath and sighed, an action that immediately softened her features as she regarded her comrade. “It’s alright, Sergeant,” she said quietly. “Excuse the outburst.”

Just then the office door opened and Mustang sauntered in, cheeks flushed from tipsiness, his evening suit well-pressed and fragrant from roses that he likely clutched to his chest before his date. “Lieutenant! Sergeant!” he exclaimed. “Still here?”

Fuery’s eyes darted between his two superiors and he felt the color drain from his face by a shade as soon as he saw Hawkeye’s deadpan expression.

There was another moment of silence before he managed a, “Colonel, sir!” and rose to a salute.

Mustang waved a gloved hand at him and lazily walked past the lieutenant and to his desk, “It’s alright, Sergeant. Way past office hours to be keeping that formality.” As soon as he saw the papers, his face fell and he ran his thumb to flip through all the pages. “How is there this much already,” he mumbled, likely to himself.

It did not escape Hawkeye, nor was it received well. “That’s what the sergeant and I have worked through the past four hours,” she said sternly. “That stack is your priority until 1700 tomorrow, unless you want to receive an overdue notice this early after our reassignment.”

Mustang rolled his eyes playfully. “You’re telling me at this time of day? Honestly, you’re such a slave driver,” he drawled. “You should really go out on a date once in a while.”

Under normal circumstances she would have dismissed his commentary, knowing full well that it was simply the way he expressed his grief at the slightest inconvenience. Hawkeye had known him long enough, and at this moment, far longer than she would have liked. She knew he meant nothing to incite offense, and this was...just the way he always was. Nothing had changed. _ Right? _ This was the normal Colonel Roy Mustang. Or, since it was an ungodly hour, this was  _ simply  _ Roy Mustang. A man who had returned to his office after a date, likely to just recollect his car keys where he normally left them. At his desk. Locked in a private drawer.

But she quickly, intensely, and with great finality arrived at the conclusion that she was not, in any way mentally, psycho-emotionally, nor physically under  _ normal _ circumstances. After two consecutive nights, here she was on overtime for a third. At precisely 2110. She had clocked in promptly by 0730 as she always did, had cut her lunch break by 45 minutes, had  _ not _ had any supper, and—curse  _ this bumbling buffoon of a superior officer _ —had burdened a comrade with finishing the work  _ only  _ she was designated to accomplish on his behalf.

So she took a deep breath, and…

“Dare to repeat, and I swear to  _ god  _ you’ll know  _ exactly _ what a slave driver is!”

Fuery’s jaw dropped.

Mustang was immediately taken aback. He stiffened and faced his personal adjutant squarely. “I beg your pardon,  _ Lieutenant Hawkeye?” _ he asked darkly, brow furrowed, eyes widening.

_ Oh my god, take me, _ Fuery squirmed in his seat.  _ Take me now. _

Hawkeye felt the blood rush to her face and her heart pound in her ears. She saw double for a split second and let out another hot breath, “You heard me,  _ sir.” _

Before her charge could collect his wits, she spun on her heel to grab her military issue coat hanging on the backrest of her chair and marched out of the office--not without a deafening slam of oakwood.

The two remaining gentlemen stayed in silence for what felt like the most painstaking ten seconds of their lives. Fuery was visibly cowering in his position, clearly unaccustomed to any afterhours outbursts like what he had just witnessed.

Mustang rubbed his hands over his face, “What the  _ hell…” _

He took a deep breath and rested both hands on his hips, looking around as if he might see some sort of explanation on the carpeted flooring, or on the walls, or maybe even on Hawkeye’s desk. His eyes settled on Fuery. “Do you know anything about this?” he said, voice hoarse from the frustration that was boiling in the back of his throat.

Fuery adjusted his collar and grabbed a stack of papers as if they provided some sort of security blanket function. “Sir I--” he stammered, scratched his head, adjusted his glasses.  _ What am I supposed to say?! _ He rarely dealt with women in his life and here he was in the middle of a dispute between two high ranking officers and one of them happened to be the most impervious, strong-willed woman if he had ever met one in Amestris’ entire field army.

Mustang steeled his gaze on him and Fuery immediately recognized the scowl that followed.

“She’s been working all day sir, and hasn’t had a single meal,” he blurted out. At this, he noticed the colonel’s expression drastically change. “We’ve been doing overtime together for three nights now, but I don’t know for how much longer she was already doing it.”

Mustang clenched his fists. “I never gave any orders that might warrant such measures from both of you.”

_ Careful, careful, _ Fuery swallowed. “It’s just...it’s the deadlines, sir that’s all. Between your state duties and those as colonel, the paperwork accumulated across two regiments is just,” Fuery raked to find a safe word. “Something we’re  _ all _ still getting used to.”

To his relief, his superior officer slowly turned to walk to his desk. Fuery let out a breath.

Mustang frowned at the taunting stack of papers under the palm of his hand.  _ Well... _ he thought sheepishly.  _ I suppose if it had been stacking up for me that could only mean it had been stacking up for her, too. _

“If I accomplish these by 1700 tomorrow, when’s the next deadline, Sergeant?”

“Ah!” Fuery scrambled for the lieutenant’s side of the desk and quickly assessed the stack she had just started on. “The earliest date here is last Thursday, sir,” he said. “That gives you a full work week.”

“Fine.”

Mustang rounded his desk and retrieved his keys, his usual demeanor recovering. “Go home, Fuery.”

“But--”

Mustang snapped earnest eyes towards his youngest subordinate. “Put those away, and go home. And don’t do overtime for another month, unless absolutely necessary. You have your orders.”

Fuery hurriedly stood up and forced himself into a salute. “Affirmative, sir!”

* * *

Roy made his way down the cobblestone sidewalk towards Draft, which he was only pursuing on a hunch. If the lieutenant had indeed not eaten, then she likely would have just stormed into the nearest establishment to catch some reprieve, even if it was a loud, bustling pub. At least that much noise would overpower her own internal screaming that he...so...stupidly induced.

As soon as he arrived at the door, he recognized her through the jalousie, lamplight on her blond hair bringing stark contrast against the crowd. He let himself in, immediately earning the attention of a waitstaff.

“Table for one?”

“No, I’m here with a friend,” Roy said, gaze still on his personal adjutant as he mechanically pulled out his state issued pocket watch and an official statement. “Bring me an Old Fashioned, and can you put everything that lady already ordered on my tab?” 

The staff followed his eyes until he saw who he was referring to. “You got it, chief.”

Roy muttered a thanks as his pocket watch was whisked away on a silver tray. He cleared his throat and tugged at his cuffs, a nervous tick he had never shaken off even after his own mother and sisters tried to wriggle him out of it growing up. 

Riza was seated alone at the bar counter, having shed her coat, along with her suffocating military jacket, and was picking her way through a seemingly hefty serving of fish and chips. She had her fingers to her temple, elbow resting next to her plate. That was when he also noticed the half empty pint of lager.

_ Worst boss award goes to...me. _

It was the strangest thing, but as always, almost expected--as if she had felt his energy enter her space, Riza lifted her head and inclined her neck exactly to the point that she caught his eyes.

Roy set his jaw as she responded unfavorably by scowling, tearing her eyes away from his and taking a generous swig off her beer. He walked over.

“Come to collect your chauffeur?” she scoffed, as soon as he came within earshot.

“Very funny,” Roy replied lamely and took a seat next to her. As if on cue, the bartender on duty slid his Old Fashioned over. 

He mulled over what to say next and finally settled for, “Can I get you anything?”

“You can  _ get out.” _ Riza suggested.

Roy’s eyes softened. She sounded everything but angry. Tired, and perhaps completely  _ spent. _ Between the ambient lights of the bar, and at the proximity he sat next to her, he could finally see the dark circles under her eyes and that her usual fiery hazel regard had dulled. He looked away as she continued to eat.

“I owe you an apology, Lieutenant,” he said sincerely, swirling his drink. He realized that the caramel tones of the whiskey was reminiscent of her eyes. 

“It’s all the same, as when we were children, Colonel,” she said blandly. “I owe you apologies, too.”

Roy simply nodded and took a sip of his drink, relishing the husky blend of liquor and bitters as it left a searing sensation down his throat.

“Neither of us should drive under these conditions,” Riza said idly, pushing the now empty porcelain towards the end of the counter and finishing off the rest of her beer.. 

“Guess I’ll just have to walk you home, then,” he said—perhaps a little too cheerily—because he nearly physically shrank at the look she shot him.

“I don’t need you to watch out for me,” she said and knocked loudly on the countertop to signal for service.

The bartender reappeared swiftly whilst wiping a cocktail shaker, “Shall I clear this out for you?”

“Get me the check while you’re at it.”

“Actually, your bill’s been settled, ma’am.”

Riza’s eyes snapped at the poor, innocent waitstaff, who suddenly seemed to realize that he had committed a grave error. 

“What do you  _ mean _ my bill’s been settled?”

Roy swallowed. Especially when she was being intentional about  _ severing  _ him as if he was a literal thorn on her side, he knew that Riza absolutely despised being covered for anything she considered essential.

As if she heard his brain click—although it really would not have surprised him if she actually had the ability to do that—she shot another glare at his direction, look of disbelief marring what was...her most attractive features, flushed warm from alcohol. “Unbelievab--!”

Riza jumped off her seat and grabbed her garments, marching away from Roy a second time that night.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Roy fumbled for his own coat just as the bartender scrambled to return his pocket watch and accompanying statement. Roy grabbed them and was soon out the door.

By now the evening air had grown drier and colder. He saw Riza just paces ahead, angrily unclipping her hair loose and pulling her uniform tightly around her in efforts to keep warm. 

_ Geez, I could sober up in these temperatures.  _ Roy gritted his teeth against the cold and hurried after her. “Lieutenant!” 

He was rewarded with silence and even hotter pursuit. Roy widened his strides until he finally caught her elbow, “Riza--”

_ “Don’t!” _ Riza immediately retracted her arm and spun around to face him, rooting herself to the pavement like a wall, so suddenly that Roy had to stop short.

“If it isn’t clear to you,  _ Roy, _ I need space,” she said breathlessly. “I am frustrated, I am very, very tired, and I would very much want to get home.”

“I understand that, I just--” he stared at her and immediately felt guilt grip his heart like an iron fist.

She simply did not lose her cool like this, or at least he knew her enough to know that she rarely did. He knew that few things could rile her up to this point. First, lost time at the shooting range because she was never satisfied with her performance, second, unmet deadlines because that reflected on him, on her, and the whole team, and third, reaching home at odd hours knowing Hayate had been left alone too long. Now if Fuery’s theory was correct, and Riza had been clocking in overtime for much longer than she had let on, then Roy had successfully hit all three non-negotiables and she could shoot him right then and there for even stalling her further.

“Please,” he tried again. “Just let me walk you home.”

“Why?” Riza pressed, her voice maintaining its angry tones, but hints of hurt did not go unnoticed. “Colonel,  _ why _ did you have to get it to this point?  _ Slave driver?” _

_ There it is. _ Roy bit his lip. So his usual joke had indeed gone too far tonight. He threw his hands up in earnest, “Lieutenant-- _ Riza,” _ he said, defeated. “I have no excuse. It was a poor joke from the very beginning.  _ I know  _ you’re exhausted, and as your superior officer, I shouldn’t allow my men to get to the point of unnecessary overwork. Clearly, I…” Roy trailed off and shook his head, seeing Riza’s shoulders relax, only slightly. “I can’t keep the same routine I had at Eastern Command. Please let me figure this out with you.”

He took another breath, a cloud of fog forming near his lips as he let it out. “And please, let me walk you home.”

Riza shut her eyes and let out her own hot breath, bringing her fists to the sides of her head.  _ Insufferable colonel. _

This was perhaps one out of already innumerable times that Roy had asked for her forgiveness. Growing up, he had done as miniscule as arrive late to the breakfast table, to as much as breaking an heirloom vase. For the latter, he had faced the wrath of both the lady of the manor, as well as its master, Berthold Hawkeye. That was eventually how Roy learned how to use alchemy to repair objects.

Tonight, as they stood freezing in the empty lamp-lit streets of Central City nearing 2300, he was at it again, and Riza knew that like every other time, she would forgive him. 

Roy was easy to forgive, not for his sweet talk, but for his sincere efforts to do right by his word and commit. A gentleman after his own honor, for sure. Always. He never failed.

She sensed that he began to close the distance between them, felt the warmth of his body emanate through her coat and barely reach her own skin. This was dangerous.

If he was taking the risk, it was only to abuse the fact that he was not in uniform, and she was completely buttoned up in her own inconspicuous black coat, golden tresses down and disheveled by the evening wind. It helped that it was far too late at night in the middle of the week to have eyes on them now.

“Let me walk you home,” he said, much gentler now, and much,  _ much _ less like a superior officer giving command. He pried her hands away from her face and held them both in his.

Riza refused to look up, instead bowed her head and tried to shake off her own inhibitions.

Roy drew circles on her knuckles with his thumbs and pressed kisses on her fingers. “Let me walk you home,” he said into them. 

Riza opened her hands and he only let his own rest on the back of each. She barely touched his face. “You take such drastic measures, Roy,” she said tiredly.

He smiled, his gaze on her glossed and speaking volumes no one else would understand.

“Yes, yes,” she rolled her eyes and dropped her hands. “Walk me home.”


End file.
